Sensation
by Kefirah
Summary: post-COE. A bit of a ghost story. Jack is tired of life on Earth. Ianto finds a way to let him go.


**Summary: **a bit of a ghost story. Jack is tired of life on Earth. Ianto finds a way to let him go.

**Characters**: Captain Jack H.

**Pairing**: Jack/Ianto

**Rating**: T

**Spoiler**: Children of Earth – Day 4

**Setting**: something I think happens before that final scene of COE.

**Warnings**: character death

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Torchwood or any of its characters or plot lines, nor do I receive money from stories.

**A/N**: I won't lie. I love this story. It's been hard-birthed and nurtured. I can't thank **Triquetralin** enough for the proper completion of it. The title comes from the song "Sensation" by Bryan Ferry.

**Sensation**

The scent took Jack by surprise.

He hated coming home to a regular flat; stepping into the musty, generic lobby, checking for mail in the battered metal box, juggling keys in the clunky, claustrophobic lift, and the overwhelming smells of humanity on his floor. He even hated the strangers living next to him, hated them for who they weren't.

As if in protest to his environment, Jack's thoughts were of Ianto and the Hub, repeatedly touching his mind, fleeting and ethereal, before floating off again. The rain and rich, sea air brought familiar scents to mind – the stone and concrete walls permeated with an earthy dampness from the ever present trickle of the water tower, sunk through the echoing cavern, overlaid by the thick waft of freshly ground coffee. Sometimes, even now, entering a café could bring Jack to tears.

Every memory of the Hub had Ianto's solid and constant presence layered through it – the subtle whiff of cologne over that of the coffee, the flash of his rare smile reflecting in the shine of Jack's ebony desk, the gentle lilt of his voice, quiet and deep, often compelling Jack to hold his breath to listen.

The lift doors opened with a clank, sharply returning Jack to the present. Sighing at the unwelcome shift of thought, he stepped inside. A warm caress of air against his cheek and suddenly he was enveloped in Ianto's scent. More than coffee, cologne and expensive wool suits, it was the personal scent of him – the tang of sweat, his sweet breath and the heady musk of sex. Inhaling sharply, Jack could taste him on his tongue and he staggered against the lift wall, legs shuddering.

Tears pricked his eyes. He jammed his knuckles against them, but that just brought the image of Ianto to the back of his eyelids – tall and loose-limbed, lounging against the lift doors, a sad smile on his face. Gasping, Jack's eyes flew open to emptiness.

He'd never had such a vision. The scent was still there. He made it down the hallway and into his flat before he let his breath out again, his legs finally giving out as he slid to the floor, hugging the memory to himself.

Jack came back to reality with twilight settled to full darkness in the small flat. He was still on the floor, his greatcoat bunched under him. Ianto would have had something to say about that, seeing the coat he loved so wrinkled. It wasn't the original – that had been lost with the Hub – but it was the last thing Ianto had bought for him. The coat defined Jack and, in a way, defined Ianto's love for him. Jack stood, removed the coat and carefully hung it up, wiping his eyes surreptitiously.

His flat was sparsely furnished. Through all his years of living, he tried hard not to hold onto things. Besides, he didn't like to think he was staying – not then, and certainly not now_._ Books, clothes and a place to rest were all he needed. Everything else had been lost. He didn't even have a photo of Ianto, although with visions like that, he didn't need one.

Pulling a beer out of the fridge, he went to the small balcony. It was cool and misty – not quite rain, not quite fog – the kind of day he would have encouraged Ianto to stay in bed with him. The wind caressed his face and he smelled the harbour, another reminder of the Hub and Ianto. He took a long pull of the bottle, squashing down his thoughts. It was fine to have memories, but overt sentimentality was just not him. Maybe it was time to leave Cardiff.

"No."

A chill sliced down the back of his neck, sharp as a knife. He put the bottle down, not wanting to drop it. The word hadn't been in his head; it had been a voice, soft as the wind but still audible. Feeling a little foolish, he cleared his throat.

"Ianto?" His voice sounded hollow and empty.

He held his breath. The breeze continued to tug at his hair. No more scents, just the clean ocean wind. He finally let out his breath, disappointed yet slightly relieved. He had never believed in ghosts and didn't want to start now. Picking up his beer, he turned and went back into the flat. Nothing had changed.

His eyes caught a flash of white, a piece of paper on the floor. He stood frozen, unable to breathe. Creamy, rough-edged, torn from a book. Jack knew it well, but it was impossible. Ianto's diary was lost in the explosion along with everything else. The young man had silently mourned the loss of it, until, four days later, just as suddenly, and with a much more devastating impact, he too was gone.

A breeze from the open balcony door lifted the paper, sliding it sideways. It was real, but still Jack couldn't move. He could see the ink and recognized the shape of the words, even if he couldn't read them at this distance, and his chest clenched. He had nothing left and now this piece of Ianto's heart lay on his floor. He stepped closer. A word emerged from the scrawl -Jack- and he dropped to his knees.

The words flowed in front of him, just a few lines, started and never finished. The familiar scrawl, half script, half print, tore at him and it was if he could hear Ianto's soft, husky Welsh voice as he read.

-Jack- My head is full of him. He wants me. I see him looking and know he wants me. He doesn't know he has me – breath, blood, bone and soul, I'm his. I'm his.

Pain tore Jack open and he sobbed. _Please God, _he pleaded_, please Universe, Rift, TARDIS, whoever you are, I can't do this any more. Don't make me do this any more!_

He picked up the paper, the rich, soft touch of it bringing more tears. _Please, I don't want to remember any longer._

Ianto's voice breathed in Jack's mind, softly accusing, "In a thousand years' time, you won't remember me" and the impact of his promise squeezed Jack's chest with a hard, searing pain. He knew his heart had stopped. His last conscious thought was _Please let it be this time ..._

The hard floor and a cold blast of air from the open balcony door were the first things he felt, gasping back to life. The disappointment nearly killed him again but, as always, a sense of perspective folded around him. Life. It was his burden. He would endure it because he had to. At least he had the page of Ianto's diary now.

Pushing himself up, he looked for the paper under his body, then in his clothes. Frantic, he searched but knew, inescapably, that it wouldn't be there. Was it a dream? No, the words were still there in his mind, as clear as the memory of Ianto. He knew he hadn't imagined them.

Getting up, he felt the words "I'm his" embracing him, a comforting weight, reminiscent of Ianto's passion-spent body lying atop his.

"You're mine, Ianto," he whispered. "You're mine – breath, blood, bone and soul. I won't give you up. I won't forget."

A gust of wind swirled around him. He first thought it was the open balcony and the night breeze, but this was warm, caressing; touching him intimately, spinning him around and, just as suddenly, gone, shot out the balcony door, making the curtains snap.

It was over. He sighed, the pain now gone. The emptiness was still there, but smaller. In his heart, forever nestled next to Ianto's smile and eyes were the words: _I'm his_ ...


End file.
